


The Card Cheat

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Anal Sex, BAMF Castiel, BAMF Dean, Blood, Bottom Castiel, Gunplay, Humor, Knifeplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Swearing, Top Dean, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I fucking hate you.”<br/>“You already said that. And I already said that you totally don’t. Because people who hate each other don’t jump on each other’s cocks and ride them into the middle of next week.”<br/>“Have you never watched Jerry Springer?”</p>
<p>Dean and Cas are hitmen, working together at the behest of their boss, who has an ulterior motive in forcing the two opposites into eachother's lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Card Cheat

**Author's Note:**

> There is absolutely nothing redeemable about this fic. It is porn for the sake of it.  
> I am not sorry.  
> There is lots of swearing and nonsense.  
> Please ignore any errors; I did my best, but stuff may have slipped through. I shall rectify it in the morning :)
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> [ My Tumblr ](http://not-a-natural-born-idjit.tumblr.com/)

“Uno.”

“Son of a fuckin’ bitch!” Dean throws down his remaining cards, past the point of caring about how petulant he looks, glaring daggers at his... _whatever_ Cas is. He’s certainly not a friend or lover. Colleague – maybe. Crazy fucker – definitely.

Crazy is relative in this business though.

The other man chuckles, blue eyes glinting in the crappy motel lights. “Another game?”

“Fuck you Cas.”

Cas makes a small noise and tilts his head, gazing sweeping over Dean, apparently considering the offer that wasn’t actually an offer.

“You _are_ pretty, but I don’t mix business with pleasure.” He leans over to collect the rest of the cards, shuffling them back into the deck and dropping the stack onto the little wooden table between them.

“Could you be anymore charming?”

He cocks a brow, “Like you? Mr-I’m-such-a-fucking-neanderthal-I-make-cavemen-look-like-the-height-of-sophistication?”

“Fuck you.”

“ _You_ already said that. And _I_ already said no.”

There is just no winning with this asshole. Five fuckin’ weeks they’ve been working together – and wasn’t that a stroke of genius from whoever thought of it; putting two people who can kill each other in about ninety different ways in a cramped car together 12 hours a day – and Dean wants to kill the scruffy tax accountant looking motherfucker with the stupid sex hair so bad he can fucking _taste_ it.

“I’m going out.” He grabs his leather jacket off the back of his chair and slides it on, staring the other man down, waiting for any signs of a reaction.

Cas doesn’t look surprised; mildly _something else_ though. “Don’t be late back. We’re waiting on the call from Janne.”

Dean rolls his eyes. As if he doesn’t have a clue how this works by now. He’s only been working for the Finnish mob boss for something close to seven years, which, incidentally, is longer than the smug prick in front of him, reclining in the battered leather chair like he rules the damn world, “Yeah, I fucking know.”

His hand is outstretched, reaching for the doorknob when he hears, “You know, it wouldn’t do you any harm to soak up some of the culture here, rather than going out and getting drunk.”

“It wouldn’t do you any harm to shut the fuck up.” Comebacks are not his strong suit.

A grin breaks out onto Cas’s handsome face. Bastard. “Oooh, a bit upset about the whole me rejecting you thing?”

“Oh fuck you.” And before Cas can reply, he slams the door behind him. And neither is maturity, apparently.

 

***

Dean is surprisingly sober and un-laid when he returns to their shared room. The place he’d been to was a rough-as-fuck biker bar that he’d usually spend hours in, playing pool and hitting on hot biker chicks, but for some reason, he just wasn’t feeling it tonight.

It may have had something to do with the phone call from his boss.

Cas looks up from his position on the bed, propped up on the whole two pillows that the motel had thoughtfully provided them with, reading. “Hmm, normally you come back looking like death and smelling like a tart’s boudoir. Not tonight though.” He eyes Dean thoughtfully. “You really want it bad, huh?”

Dean shucks his jacket off, not caring that it ends up as a heap on the floor. “No, I can’t fucking stand you. Why would I wanna fuck you?”

It’s not denial. Dean is just selective about the reality he accepts.

Cas closes his hardback, dog-earing the page and drops it onto the nightstand, before he turns his attention to Dean, a small smile playing on his plush lips, as some kind of idea formulates in his mind.

In the next second he's slinking across the bed on hands and knees, all swaying hips, fluid lines and motion in a way that makes Dean’s mouth dry. The man is a fucking killing machine and Dean would be so far in denial that there would be a very real risk of him getting eaten by crocodiles, if he said that watching Cas shoot his way through twenty men like they were nothing, wasn’t hot as fuck.

Cas is probably the only man on the planet capable of taking him out and that is just… _yeah_. His dick is definitely paying attention.

“We’ve been working together for long enough now Dean that I know exactly what you’re thinking.”  On his knees at the edge of the bed, Cas’s face is so close to Dean’s that he’s almost going cross-eyed trying to look at him, to pick out his handsome features, but he can’t bring himself to care how retarded he looks, because he can taste Cas’s minty breath on his lips; can feel the quickening of his heartbeat, telling Dean how much he wants it too.

He tries to move closer, subtly as he can, but for every inch he gains, Cas moves two back until Dean is growling in frustration and Cas’s face breaks out into a grin.

Which is about the point that Dean has had enough of this Cat and mouse bullshit. He’s too straight-line-from-A-to-B to have the patience for it. Cas can spend days on a stakeout; Dean would much rather burst in all guns blazing. He’s aware that he has all the grace of a house brick; the finesse of a twenty-car pile-up, but he gets results, and right now, fucking that smug smile off Castiel’s face is the only objective he gives a shit about; other assignment be damned.

Dean decides to go for a different tactic. Provocation is an excellent and – more importantly – proven ploy. The only time Cas turns the other cheek to Dean’s carefully-constructed barbs is to grab his gun.

“Can’t handle it without getting attached, huh? I get it. That’s why you keep business and private shit separate?”

Cas growls low in his throat; it’s a warning. One a saner human being would probably heed, but stability and rationality are overrated, because _in_ sanity is so much more fun. “You should probably shut the fuck up unless you want me to snap your neck.”

Dean smirks, hot and filthy and full of so much promise that a weaker man than Cas would have surrendered under the heavy weight of sin held in the sultry curve of his lips.

Cas isn’t weak though, and that’s the difference; what will make his victory so much sweeter.

“I know you want me too, you bastard. I see it written all over you face whenever I go out to fuck someone else; the pure fucking want in those baby blues.”

Cas says nothing and Dean knows he’s got him. “You wish it was you, don’t you baby? I bet you imagine that it’s you underneath me, dick buried inside that tight ass of yours, fucking you until you can’t think about anything else.”

Cas’s eyes snap to Dean’s, sharp like glass and just as likely to slash his soul to ribbons. “The only thing I ever think about is the day this mission is over and I can get the fuck away from you. Or kill you.”

“Yeah? Well why don’t you then Cas, huh? You’ve had plenty of opportunities. Is it ‘cause you’d miss me?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence before Cas lunges for him, bodies colliding with brutal force, yanking  Dean sideways by the right sleeve of his shirt, and twisting, pushing at his left shoulder, so that that he lands awkwardly – and painfully – sprawled  on his back on the bed, slightly dazed but mostly victorious, with Cas’s knees straddling his body.

Before Dean can say or do anything, Cas is attacking his mouth, kissing him wet and messy, tongue thrusting in deep as his nimble fingers take care of Dean’s belt buckle and jeans button with the efficiency that is tantamount to who Cas is; synonymous with dexterity and grace, tugging the material down Dean’s legs and leaving them bunched up around his boots, before he moves on to Dean's button-down, popping the buttons, until it falls open, leaving Dean's torso exposed, chest rapidly rising and falling.

Cas finally pulls away and sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. “Yeah, I’d miss you like a hole in the head, Winchester.”

Dean flashes him his patented panty-dropper smile and pushes himself up on his elbows as Cas scoots backwards off the daisy-patterned comforter, shirking out of his – Dean’s – faded AC/DC shirt. And Dean _cannot_ – will not – just let that slide, even if he’s about to get laid and it’s against his better judgment to rile Cas up and put the imminent dick-getting-wet situation at serious risk by doing so.

“Your argument would be more convincing if you didn’t sit there wearing my shirt, pining every time I went out for a couple of hours.”

“God, I fucking hate you.” He strips out of his jeans and boxer-briefs, feet already bare and have been since they rolled into this town – whatever it’s called; Bumfuck, Nowheresville – ‘cause he says that he prefers being barefoot whenever he can, to be one with nature or some shit, it’s probably more complicated than that. And it’s kinda cool in theory, but in reality – when you’re staying in nondescript not-always-decent motels that may or may not have been cleaned properly, well it’s not so cool.

“Sure you do baby,” Dean grins, reaching out as Cas climbs back on the bed, straddles his hips, and he slides his hands up the firm flesh of Cas’s thighs, over the marble smooth curve of his ass, admiring his hard flushed cock, tip glistening.

The man is stunning. No two ways about it.

“Want me to open you up Cas? Get you ready for my cock? Wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”

Cas spits into his palm and slicks Dean's cock up, “Get over yourself Winchester; your dick isn’t that big.”

Dean chuckles, low and deep as Cas positions himself, holding Dean still and sinking down in one slightly stuttered motion that _has_ to hurt – hurts Dean a little, so must be worse for Cas – and rolls his hips experimentally, as if checking the give and take of their bodies, making himself comfortable; or at least as comfortable as anyone can be whilst impaled practically dry on a cock that is – despite what Cas says – bigger than average, so Dean feels smug when he replies,

“You say that, Cas, but your eyes are looking pretty watery right about now.”

Instead of responding verbally, Cas leans forward and sinks his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder, biting hard enough that Dean’s hips buck up in response, fingernails digging into Cas’s hips, so turned on that he almost feels sick with it.

“Fuck _yeah_ Cas,” He drawls, thick and syrupy, high and dazed. “You totally hate me.”

“I do,” He confirms, shifting backwards, bodies rocking together.

“’Course.”

“Janne called whilst you were out.” Cas groans, his spine arched, head tipped back, throat bared as he rides Dean hard and fast, hips driving back and forth almost desperately.

This is not a conversation that Dean wants to be having _ever_ , let alone right now. “Ohh… yeah?”

Cas tilts his head forward again, eyes meet Dean’s, dark and dangerous as hell. “He told me who the next hit is.”

“Do we have to discuss this right now?”

Cas stretches his body over Dean’s, changing the angle, so that it’s quicker, shallow thrusts and slips his hand under the pillows further up the bed, just above Dean’s head. “No _baby_ ,” He whispers, lips pressed close to Dean’s ear, sending shivers through his entire body. “But I think it’s wise.”

He sits back up, tightness fully enveloping Dean once more, and that’s when Dean sees the Beretta 418 in his right hand.

“It’s you.”

He feels the smooth, cold metal pressing right against the tattooed skin over his heart, breathes in deep, trying to keep the small tremor out of his voice, “You’re gonna kill me Cas?”

Castiel starts rolling his hips harder and faster, fucking himself on Dean’s cock, gun trailing down his abs, the coldness making his muscles contract. When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean continues, breathless and panting, but nevertheless surprisingly coherent considering the tight heat that he’s currently balls deep in.

“It’s funny, ‘cause when I was out, I got a phone call too. With orders to kill you.”

Cas’s response is breathy, but immediate, “Like you could.”

“Wanna bet?”

Cas cocks the gun and jams it under Dean’s chin, the barrel rubbing against his Adam’s apple when he swallows as the momentary urge to fight back flares and then dies.

If Cas really wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

“Yeah, I do.” He tilts his head to the side, not slowing his rhythm, “I’ve seen what you’ve got to offer so far, and really?” He tuts, shaking his head sadly, “I’m not impressed.”

It’s a totally risky move considering there’s a loaded gun poised and ready to kill him quick and messy, but right now Dean isn’t thinking about dying; he’s too preoccupied with the sensations associated with living. He bides his time; waiting a couple of seconds until he slams his hips up, just right, cock dragging over that spot inside Cas that causes his eyelashes to flutter closed and that’s when Dean takes advantage.

Using his weight, he swiftly rolls them over, mindful of where the gun is in relation to his vital organs, until he’s looking down at Cas, pinning the hand with the gun, and he reaches down to his boots, scrabbling to get past his bunched up jeans, pulling out his knife that he keeps in there and holds it to Cas’s throat.

It’s awkward as fuck, over in seconds, but totally worth it to see the expression on Cas’s face. “Fucker.”

Dean sinks the whole way back inside Cas’s body, deep and slow, grinning at the other man's failed attempt to suppress a moan. “What were you saying, _angel?”_

For a few blissful moments, Cas is silent and the only sound that fills the room is the creaking of the cheap bed as Dean rocks forward, thrusting slowly and evenly, relishing in the knowledge that Cas needs it harder, faster and always _more,_ but is too fucking stubborn to give in, wouldn’t give in even if Dean held him on the edge of orgasm for days.

“I could…have your brains splattered against that wall…before… _fuck_ … you even break skin.”

“Yeah?” Bracing his weight on the arm that has Cas neutralized – as much as a maniac with orders to kill you can be with one arm free – continuing his measured, torturous rhythm, Dean presses the blade against the curve of Cas’s throat, watching, fascinated as a rivulet of blood trickles out and pools in the dip of his collarbone. “I don’t think so.”

Castiel bares his teeth on a hiss, looking half-wild; feral and on the verge of ripping Dean’s throat out. If there’s anything hotter than this right here and now, then he’s not sure he wants to know, ‘cause he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“I fucking hate you.”

“ _You_ already said that. And _I_ already said that you totally don’t. Because people who hate each other don’t jump on each other’s cocks and ride them into the middle of next week.”

“Have you never watched Jerry Springer?”

Dean grins, still driving in deep and deliberate. “I learn new shit about you every day. So tell me… are you more of a roses or lilies kinda gal?”

“You’re a bastard.”

“You’re just figuring this out? And I thought you were smart.”

“Smarter than…you.”

“Oh now, I don’t know about that. If you were, then you would have killed me already.”

Cas moves so quickly that Dean barely even sees him until it’s too late; the knife is knocked from his hand, sent flying across the room and lands with a clatter on the faux-wooden floor. Cas’s grin is wild as he takes complete advantage of Dean’s brief lapse and uses the momentum gained from his neat trick with the knife to reverse their positions again, settling so that Dean’s fully seated inside him without missing a beat, gravity doing its work so that the small pool of blood trails a path down Cas’s chest, over his nipple and towards those hipbones that Dean could write fucking poems about.

He keeps the gun rammed against Dean’s sternum as he starts stroking himself, hips thrusting into the friction, controlling the pace how he wants it, rocking back and forth, grinding down as Dean drives up, both of them close, “I.. ah… I thought about it.”

God, Cas looks fucking beautiful, riding him hard, gun in his hand, chest flushed and dark eyes completely focused on Dean. He’s pretty much every wet dream Dean’s ever had, come to life.

“ _Fuck_ , Cas.” Dean is literally centimeters away from what could potentially be _the_ orgasm of his lifetime and Cas is still talking, but it’s fading to white noise as he focuses on not coming first, ‘cause he won’t let the bastard have the satisfaction, but _fuck_ it feels so good.

“Long… and… hard…” He punctuates each word with a stuttered movement of his hips. “Jesus _fucking Christ_ Dean… gonna…” Cas comes, spilling hot and thick over Dean’s abdomen, groaning low in his throat and Dean has a split-second to revel in his minor victory before his world becomes a series of muted colors and he arches his back as he comes locked inside Cas’s tight heat.

The room is silent save for their harsh pants and heavy breaths, focusing on pulling much needed air into their lungs as they come down.

Finally, Dean breaks the peace with, “You ‘ _thought about it’_? What does that even mean?”

Cas sighs, unusually inelegant in his clumsy climb off Dean, flopping down on the bed next to him, breathless and fucked out, looking ten kinds of perfect, still with the firearm in his hand.  The bastard waits a few more seconds, allowing their breathing to return to some semblance of normality. He rolls away and Dean hears the click of the safety, then the clatter of the gun on the nightstand, before Cas turns back to face Dean, crooked smile gracing his stupidly attractive features, making him look years younger.

“It means that I thought about it, you fucking simpleton. But then I changed my mind.”

Dean ignores the insult, “Why?”

Cas blinks at him, expression suspicious as if he can’t believe that the answer isn’t obvious. “If I killed you, who would I beat at Uno?”

“Oh fuck you.”

 


End file.
